submerged
by savagedwarfare
Summary: Some people watch her, pointing when she turns her head slightly. A scar creeps over her cheek, twisting her mouth into a sad smile.


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_**Submerged**_

**...**

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_She sinks deep within the water, submerged far beneath the glossy surface. Her lungs fill with cold water that's thick with murky depths, and through muffled hearing she can hear a grim song that fades through the sharp ripples of the lake. _

_Hands grab her, dragging her down deeper. _

_She's submerged. _

…

…

She wakes slowly. Eyes blinking, chest rising and falling.

Sweat builds on her brow, and she reaches her hands over her for her glasses.

She eyes the sleeping figures of her two roommates, with magazines and make up scattered between the two beds. It looks like a spiral of chaos and bubble gum, and she analyzes the tidy patterns of books stacked beside her bed, with a pair of flat shoes at the end of her bed.

She reads each title of each delicate spine, trying to collect the words that coat the surfaces of each thin page.

'_They mistook you as a threat, Miss. Granger.'_

The words are aged, fluttering through the soft air with heaviness.

A scar breaks the surface of her chest, jutting to her back with leach like ease. Dread and anxiety claw her; peace and inner self are washed away.

She turns her head, gazing out the window. Beneath her view is the lake, darkened by the war within it. Above her, all that she can see, is the wide expanse of thin grey, soft gold's breaking through. It begins to thaw her, slightly. Lavender rouses from across the room, eye liner smeared down her cheek.

Her other roommate is thick with sleep, dark hair spilling over the pillow like an Indian Goddess. Dark skin creates a compelling allure, inviting with vanilla glow Lavender holds.

Somewhere deep is Hermione's own beauty. It's submerged, and she tries to find it. But for now she reaches for a tube of lip stick, willing to paint a mask.

...

…

Breakfast is hollow. The world slumbers deep, caught up within the events of before.

Some people watch her, pointing when she turns her head slightly. A scar creeps over her cheek, twisting her mouth into a sad smile.

Peppermint tea steeps before her, frigid hands clutching the mug they turn red. She's unsure, but she pretends that she is. She wears dark eye liner and red lip stick like armour, trying to pretend that she isn't falling apart over and over again.

'Morning, 'Mione." Ron announces, shoving himself in a seat beside her.

He's stretched out before her with eyes bright. His skin is unscarred, and his dreams are unbroken. Dreams of savage monsters do not rip him open, nor does the world unknown crush his chest. He remembers nothing from beneath the surface of the water.

But her chest is being ground to ashes, and she's choking on the mystery of this war beneath their feet.

'Morning,' she replies, flipping a page of Hamlet.

He sighs. Reaching over, he slathers butter on his stack of toast, creating a monstrous tower of gluttony. 'You over the mermaid thing yet?'

Her spine does not hunch. She does not try to burrow deep within herself, or to flee his words. She sharpens, straightening her back and lifting her chin. She looks deep within his eyes so dim.

She takes a breath.

Releases it. Lungs empty of water.

'_Bastard_,' she hisses.

...

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Hermione is not blind.

Nor is she dull minded.

She knew Harry was Ronald's friend first, and he would always be. He had a little boy crawling within him, awakening to the affection bestowed. He had his scars, and he hid from their reality.

He would not continue on, leaning on her. He would not aid her, because he had Ronald. Truth hurts, but lies only sharpen the pain.

But Gods how it hurt.

...

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_Their words do not connect. _

_Senseless anger overrules proper thought, and they aim their spears at her. She awakens by the intense power, a chasm of charms bringing life on. _

_A little girl hovers ghost like next to her, eyes opening slightly. Lips part violently, a scream never release. _

_She does not understand. _

...

…

Lavender complains first, of course.

The screaming, the sobbing. It wakes her up. Hermione is knotted within sheets, trying to breathe past thick water and nightmares.

The panic drives her mad, and the aftermath tears at her soul.

Parvati watches with half lidded eyes. Like Hermione's suffering is so boring she detaches her attention span.

In the end she is proven wrong, because when Hermione falls back onto the mattress, a package of mint chewing gum lands carefully beside her, and a resentful voice calls, _'Shut the bloody hell up, Lavender. You're keeping me awake.' _

This Indian Girl becomes her hero.

...

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She's not really sure why she picks such an unlikely being to be her hero. She's Hermione Granger. Brilliant. Smartest witch in their generation, the teacher's claim violently.

So brilliant she's loathed because she knows the words and the material is all lodged within her mind screaming to get out because Hermione only wants everyone to understand that _she knows_.

But Parvati is so subtle. She's hard beneath so much softness, and she writes out each action so damn precisely. She dances through the hordes of people, and the world is trailing after her.

So she watches, but she dares not to follow.

She knows better.

...

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Hermione finds herself after dinner, spewing her guts up into the toilet bowl.

Parvati finds her one evening, and grabs a fist full of her hair back gently. She's silent in a hard way, waiting.

Hermione pulls back from the toilet, grasping for the cloth on the counter. Parvati asks so suddenly it makes her jump. "How do you know when you're finally empty of everything?"

Hermione weighs her words carefully. "I'm not really full of anything anymore." Hermione's lips are twisted up into a smile, and she drags down her shirt enough to show the scar against her chest.

...

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_Ron was gone first (alive, so blessedly alive). His hero had saved him, and her own failed her. _

_It's something she really can't forgive, because how can she?_

_Cho's body floats against the current, her lips parted and eyes wide open. Hermione tries to find the surface when a hand locks around her ankle and a spear broke her skin, a scream bubbling free from her mouth. _

_She couldn't stop this. _

_..._

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She slips down from her room, snagging her glasses from the bed stand. She doesn't know where she will go, or how she will go. She doesn't really want to die yet, because their isn't really any need yet.

She ends up at the edge of the lake. Water beckons to her, wanting to suck her in as the night grows cold.

The mermaids no longer exist beneath the rippling waves. Slaughtered by curses and hexes, a new war formed beneath their lands.

So she looks to the moon and dreams she can fly.

...

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A Hufflepuff girl offers trades her pack of cigarettes for some homework done, and Hermione willingly accepts.

She breathes death in so strongly, choking on the vile sensation.

She breathes out life so willingly, so resentfully. She perches herself up by the lake, first years skirting around her.

They point fingers, and Professor McGonagall demands she smokes away from the castle, lest she have to take away this vice.

And _'God child, what has become of you?'_

Hermione argues that statement, seething beneath the judgement.

('_More like what will become of me, isn't it?')_

...

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She wears Muggle trousers and a grey sweater to Potions class Monday. They whisper and point, but she cuts and mashes and stirs and contributes her perfect potion before anyone can speak up.

She's so bloody angry and it burns within her.

But Snape can because he always has angry words foaming beneath the surface, eyes that glitter with disgust and poison. 'How dare you wear such abomination to my classroom? Do you have any respect for yourself?'

Draco leers at her violently, and Harry looks away. "I do, Professor." She states calmly, hiding the storm beneath her mask of eye drops and lip stick and rebellion.

His voice becomes like silk, wrapping itself around her as it slowly strangles her. "You wear this Muggle filth and say you have respect?"

"I am, as you say, Muggle Filth. Why should I give up my heritage to pretend I belong to this society of civil war and damned status? I am Muggle. I am going to die because my blood isn't given through inbreeding, and I am part of you all."

The silence becomes like a spear head, piercing her will and sharpening her resolve.

She leaves the classroom, heels of her shoes striking the ground like a war drum. The halls of the castle have never been emptier.

(she faces 500 points later, and a month worth of detentions)

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_(the next day, fifteen Muggles arrive to their classes wearing clothing of their society. Three days later, a riot forms of trends and rules.)_

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She wanders up to the highest tower, and sits on the rails. Her feet swing over the ledge, and the world beneath her has become so small, so distant.

She can see the lake from here, the grey surface silent.

'You come up here a lot.' Harry states, standing behind her. She doesn't turn, because she knows where he is and where he has come from. The knees of his trousers are dirt stained, and his hands are sliced into ribbons by rose thorns.

'You miss her.' She states, because his dull witted comment deserves another.

He sighs. Its heavy and guilt stained. 'I miss you to.'

'I know.'

Harry's laugh is short and pleasant. 'You started a rebellion, you know. Greengrass is wearing our clothing to now. This is the trend, I suppose.'

Her voice rises gently. Hands tighten on the rail. 'Harry?'

'Yeah?'

'You can leave now.'

…

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Harry leaves.

..

…

Lavender is somewhere with Dean, and Parvati sprawls herself onto Hermione's bed. She watches Hermione quietly, tugging on her hand until they are tangled up into blankets together.

Parvati hums when she sleeps, and Hermione sometimes screams out. Parvati traces the scar on her chest and kisses her smiling mouth, telling her old stories.

Hermione kisses her slowly, and Parvati kisses her gently.

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It's end of the year, and she still struggles. Cho's dead body slipping through the water and the mermen screaming at her fills her mind. It doesn't matter as much, because in the end she's (_finally_) reached the surface.

Victor wasn't much of a hero, and Harry wasn't her hero.

It doesn't matter.

…

…

"_I think I love you."_

"_I know I love you."_


End file.
